It was a boring thing to watch. The reason Xeldryn was currently sitting high above was because he had been asking too many questions. Yntri had formed the shelf in the tree’s trunk and made Xeldryn sit on it, then sent it up the tree where the boy would be less distracting.
Xeldryn wasn’t quite sure how it was done, but this type of travel was common among the elves of the Grove. They would often step up to a tree and command a shelf to form from its wood, then ride it up the trunk to the high branches. Unfortunately, only the elves had this kind of control over the trees. He was stuck up here until Yntri decided to let him down.
It was a precarious perch. The shelf was narrow and a fall from this height would likely be fatal. Xeldryn was aware of this, but there was no fear in him. This wasn’t the first time the elf had done this to him. Besides, how could he be fearful here; on the trunk of his own tree?
He could feel the strength of her wood underneath him. He could hear the rustle of her leaves above his head and feel the breeze that carried her life-scent through the air. These sensations were not at the forefront of his mind, however.
Xeldryn’s thoughts were turned inward. Inside his mind, he was focused on the figure of a warrior who stood alone in a white room. The man he had created was taller than he was, and stronger too. Muscles bulged on the man’s frame.
This was Xeldryn’s internal representation of himself. This was the figure that would fight off the spirit magic attacks of anyone who tried to enter his mind. It was part of the training taught by the spirit magic users of his people and crucial for anyone who had the same ambitions he did.
One day Xeldryn planned to be part of his father’s elite force. These were the captains and generals of the Roo-Tan army. Every Protector of the Grove since the beginning had come from those ranks. Xeldryn’s father had joined the elites at age twenty. Xeldryn planned to get in much sooner.
At the moment the figure in his mind was wearing the traditional standard hide breastplate of the Roo-Tan army. Xeldryn decided that wasn’t enough. He dissolved the breastplate and replaced it with one made of Jharro wood like his father’s. The breastplate would be hard as steel and self-repair any damage done to it.
On a whim he modified it further, giving the figure a full set of Jharro platemail complete with shield and helmet. The idea was a fantasy. No human had ever been gifted a set this complete. Not even his father. Still, the figure in his mind could be as strong as he wanted it to be. The only question now was what weapon to give it?
This was a more difficult choice. Since finishing his first stint training in the Grove at age ten, Xeldryn had been training with the Roo-Tan guard instructors. They had taught him the basics of multiple weapons from swords to spears. He was passably good with them all, but he wouldn’t discover what his true talent was until Yntri finished that weapon.
The elf already knew the answer. He had seen the truth in Xeldryn’s heart and had told the boy so. Unfortunately, Yntri was keeping that knowledge secret and Xeldryn hadn’t been able to see enough of the weapon’s creation to tell anything before the elf had sent him up here.
He tried to tell himself that the form of his Jharro weapon mattered little. After all, once a warrior had gained control over the wood he could make it take whatever shape he wanted. A sword could become a club or an axe or even a bow once a wielder was fully in tune with his weapon, but it took years to gain full control. Most Roo-Tan warriors found themselves most comfortable with the weapon’s original intended shape.
Xeldryn’s personal favorite weapon was the spear. He liked the length and heft of it as well as the various fighting techniques that a Jharro spear wielder could employ. Still, it was doubtful that the tree would gift that much wood to a human of his age and experience. Spear wielders were rare. Most Roo-Tan warriors were given a sword or bow.
Xeldryn first inclination was to give the figure a spear anyway, but he changed his mind. A bow appeared in the figure’s hand. Xeldryn had shown a strong talent on the range. His father had told him so. Perhaps when he had advanced into the Elite Force, his tree would grant him the second gift of a spear.
He had just put the finishing touches on a matching quiver of arrows when he became aware that the shelf he was sitting on had started to move. He opened his eyes to find that he was descending down the trunk of the tree. He grinned with excitement. Yntri was bringing him back down.
The shelf was made out of the hard wood of the tree and moved at an even speed, the bark of the tree opening and closing behind it as it passed. Xeldryn peered down over the edge to see that Yntri was still standing at the base of the tree with his forehead planted against it. He couldn’t see anything that would tell him what kind of weapon he was getting.
When the shelf reached the bottom, it disappeared back into the trunk. Xeldryn rushed over to stand next to Yntri. He forced down the urge to hop from foot-to-foot. The elf hated when he did that. “Well?”
Yntri did not move his forehead from the bark of the tree. He let out an admonishing series of clicks. “A single word does not make a question, Chipmunk.”
Xeldryn sighed. He no longer needed Yntri’s Jharro bracelet to understand the ancient elven language. Calling him Chipmunk was the elf’s way to chide the boy when he was being impatient.
“I am sorry, Weaponmaster,” Xeldryn said with an apologetic bow. “Have you finished making it?”
Yntri finally pulled his head back from the tree. When he turned to face Xeldryn, an amused hairless eyebrow was raised. “I would not have brought you back down here otherwise. Are you ready to commune with your tree and accept her gift?”
“Yes, Weaponmaster,” he said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
Smiling, the elf reached into the tree. His hand entered the wood of the tree as if its surface were liquid. When he withdrew his hand, he was clutching the end of a length of smooth Jharro wood carved with swirling runes. He pulled, drawing out a piece long enough to be a bow, but he did not stop there.
Xeldryn’s breath caught in his throat as Yntri continued to pull. It was longer than even a sword. Could it be?
When Yntri had finished withdrawing the weapon it was nearly seven feet long. A quarterstaff. The elf blinked at the less than ecstatic expression that appeared on the boy’s face. “Are you not happy with her gift?”
“I am!” Xeldryn said hurriedly, then added with a meek tone, “I mean, I am humbled that she would give so much of herself to one such as me.”
“As you should be,” Yntri said.
“It is just that I had kind of hoped for a spear,” Xeldryn admitted.
Yntri rolled his eyes at the gall of his student. “Then learn to make it a spear, Chipmunk!”
“Of course, Weaponmaster,” he replied. After all, what was a spear but a staff with a pointed end?
“Then ready yourself,” the elf said.
Nodding, Xeldryn sat cross-legged on the flattened surface of the Jharro Root beneath him. He let out a slow calming breath and held out his hands. “I am ready to commune with my tree.”
Gently, Yntri Yni placed the staff in the boy’s hands.
A warmth overtook Xeldryn. The world fell away from around him and he was embraced by motherly thoughts of the tree. She shared with him her immeasurable history and the burden of the immense task undertaken by the Grove. It was then that she asked him the question he had been waiting to hear. Would he join the ranks of her caretakers? Would he protect the Grove so that the Grove could continue its divine task and protect the world?
“Yes,” he said and he felt her kind approval before her presence faded.
“Yes,” Xeldryn said again, this time with a voice older and deeper. When the world came back into being around him, things were different. The heady aroma of the Grove was gone, replaced by a humid mix of unpleasant odors. His body was different too. He was heavier and . . . his limbs were longer and . . . he was hungry. So hungry.
The Troll King opened his eyes and gasped, momentari
ly disoriented by the trollish side of his vision and the hues of color given off by the heat of the world around him. He trembled as the vivid nature of his childhood memories faded and he remembered who he now was.
He was still sitting in branches of the manGrove tree above the Mother’s midden heap. His legs and back ached from maintaining that position for so long. But how long had he been there? Hours? A day?
He looked down at himself and was staggered to find that it had been much longer. His once powerfully muscled body had become thin, painfully so. The thin layer of slime that coated the left side of his body was dried and peeling. Evidently many days had passed. Once again, a wave of hunger came over him. But this was no longer a human hunger.
His eyes scanned the ground around him until they came across a slight movement in the brackish water between the mounds of wood and iron. A swamp croc. It was lying in wait for prey.
His trollish side took command. A mindless screech pierced The Troll King’s parched lips and he leapt down from the tree. He hit the tangled roots of the manGrove and tumbled into the water, his Jharro weapons falling beside him with a clatter.
Somehow he was able to keep enough of his mind to grab the staff before charging towards the place where he had seen the croc, his arms outstretched, his mouth hanging open.
The creature sensed his approach. Though a predator itself and imposing in size, it realized his nature. It turned to swim away, but it was not fast enough.
The Troll King leapt at the reptilian beast, his staff forming into a spear that he thrust through the thin plate at the back of the croc’s armored skull. As it thrashed its death throes, he dove atop it. The smell of its blood drove all thoughts from his mind. The claws of his left hand ripped open its belly and he began to feast.
His frenzied feeding went on for some time. Eventually he was able to reform his thoughts and keep them separate and aloof from his body’s needs. Though he continued to feed, he was able to focus on the larger problem at hand.
Xeldryn was stuck between two masters. His remembered vow, though made before his rebirth, still burned within him. He was sworn to protect the trees of the Jharro Grove and their divine task. At the same time, he was beholden to the goddess that had birthed him. His desire to serve her was just as strong as it had been before.
And then there were the people. His childhood memories were still incomplete, but he remembered the Roo-Tan and the pride he had felt being part of them. He also had a deep sense of responsibility for the trollkin. They looked up to him and needed his leadership.
War between the two peoples seemed inevitable. Ever since that snake woman Mellinda had spoken with the Mother, his goddess’ will had been bent on consuming the power of the Grove. Could he find a way to dissuade the Mother from her current course? He had to try.
It was time he returned to Khanzaroo.
Chapter One
The Priestess of War was dead. Her armies had been scattered. The Black Lake had been drained. Its tons of viscous black sludge and countless squirming larvae had been poured down the mountainside.
While the victors looked on, the moonrat eyes that contained Mellinda’s wraith had been raised from their burrow deep within the ground. The two orange eyes, partially fused together in a lumpy mass, now sat exposed on a raised pillar of rock at the center of the mountain valley.
But the evil wasn’t ready to concede defeat yet. The powerful being, composed of centuries of the Moonrat Mother’s horded magic, was now freed from the priestess’ grip. In a final desperate act, Mellinda’s wraith lashed out with fury.
The conjoined eyes, though mindless, blasted out with a torrent of bewitching magic. The infested dead began to stir once more. The larvae that had spilled down the mountain slopes began to molt. Swarms of black flies rose into the air, their multifaceted eyes emitting an aura of rage and hunger.
To Fist’s spirit sight, the wraith’s magic was a black haze that filled the valley. Dark ropes of it formed, grasping at the souls of all the assembled watchers. He could feel the evil magic prying at the edges of the bond that protected him, and knew that it was much more uncomfortable for everyone who was watching unprotected.
Had any of the assembled ogres and humans been caught unawares by this bewitching barrage, they may have broken down and turned on each other, drawing weapons or swinging fists. But the ogres had been fighting the wraith for some time and the humans were hardened veterans of the Mage School and Battle Academy. These were survivors of the war not just with this evil, but with the Moonrat Mother at the height of her power. They clenched their fists and jaws and resisted the magic.
Fist stood a short distance away. He was very different that the other ogres. Larger than most of them at eight-feet-tall and massively muscled, he wore wizard’s robes under a thick iron breastplate. Just as odd was the company he kept. He stood apart from the other ogres next to his bonded and Maryanne.
Crag, ogre chieftain of the Thunder People tribe stepped forward. His scarred lips were fixed in a snarl, his broad brow furrowed with concentration. As it was his people who had fought against the evil from the beginning, and without whom the Mage School and Academy wouldn’t have known about the threat, Crag had been given the honor of destroying the eyes.
Pride swelled in Fist’s chest as he watched his father approach the source of the evil. The journey to this moment had been long and painful. So many lives had been lost, yet they had persevered. He nodded with grim satisfaction as his father swung his club in a mighty overhand blow.
The two eyes burst in a small shower of pulp and thick orange fluid.
The wraith’s tie to this world was severed. It surged and roiled, its presence spreading out over the mountains as it searched desperately for more orange moonrat eyes that could contain its power. There were none. The handful of green-eyed moonrats that had climbed the surrounding mountainside drawn to this remnant of their mother’s presence, convulsed and died, unable to contain its monstrous power.
Defeated, the black miasma that covered the valley dissipated like fog in the noon day sun. The overpowering feelings of rage and sorrow lifted. The people watching sighed in relief.
Crag turned to face the ogres assembled on the slopes and raised his club, still dripping gore, into the air. “The evil is gone!”
The Thunder People erupted into roars of joy. They shouted, praising Crag and Fist and the prowess of their tribe. Fist joined them, raising his mace and bellowing, “The Big and Little People!”
Squirrel, who was perched on Fist’s left shoulder, raised his own small arm and chattered in agreement. Us!
“Ooh, ooh!” Rufus agreed, beating his broad chest with a massive fist. The rogue horse, who was standing next to Maryanne, then gave Fist a sideways glance. It over now, right?
“Yes,” Fist said happily, but his moment of elation was already fading as his mind turned to other things. This war was over, but another one was already brewing.
Maryanne’s thoughts were turning in the same direction. She wrapped an arm around the ogre’s waist and laid her head on his right shoulder. “What is your plan now, big guy?”
That question had been building in his mind for weeks. There were so many factors to consider. His training with the Mage School was unfinished, though he wasn’t sure how his recent naming affected that. There was also the Thunder People and the sense of responsibility he had come to feel for them. Then there was Maryanne. His relationship with her had become . . . complicated.
Fist looked down at her and brushed a strand of her auburn hair behind the floppy top of one gnomish ear. He liked her ears and the way they drooped like the ears of a puppy; a seven and a half foot-tall puppy who could defeat him easily in a hand-to-hand fight. She looked back at him expectantly.
“Rufus and Squirrel and I need to go to Malaroo and help Justan,” Fist said, realizing that his decision was already made. He had been apart from his bonding wizard for far too long. The situation Justan faced in that far-off country w
as perhaps even more dangerous than the one he had just faced. Fist saw the troubled look that passed through Maryanne’s eyes and added, “Do you want to come with us?”
“What? Of course I’m coming with you! That was always my plan, whatever you decided.” A frown crossed her features. “Why? Don’t you want me to come?”
“I do,” Fist said earnestly. “I just wasn’t sure if you’d want to. You’ve been away from Mistress Sarine all this time. Are you sure she’ll be okay with it?”
Maryanne pulled back from him and folded her arms, her head cocked as if she was not quite sure whether she was irritated with him or not. “She doesn’t have much of a choice, now does she?”
The gnome warrior glanced back up the slope to where her bonding wizardess stood. Sarine was knitting away at something colorful. Old Bill was standing at her side. The two of them were looking back at her, their expressions inscrutable.
“Besides.” Maryanne’s voice was firm as she added, “She knows it’s coming.”
The wizened wizardess’ assessing gaze fell on Fist and he swallowed. “So you’ve talked to her about it already?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know exactly what you were going to do, but I figured it was likely you’d wanna go and help Sir Edge. After all, you’ve talked about it enough.” Maryanne’s eyes narrowed at her wizardess and she grunted. “Sure, Sarine’s worried about me going off without her, but she also knows it’s what I want to do. She’s not gonna try to stop me.”
Fist was relatively certain that last part was directed at Sarine instead of him. Likely, they were currently communicating through their bond. He sensed that their argument was getting heated and just standing next to Maryanne made him worried he was going to get sucked into their discussion. He did not want to get caught between the ancient wizardess and her bonded.
“Uh . . .” He licked his lips and tried to think of a way to get a fair distance between himself and their locked gaze. It was possible the wizardess would start down the slope towards him any minute now. “Well, I’m glad you are coming, Maryanne. So is Squirrel.”
Behemoth (The Jharro Grove Saga Book 6) Page 2
